Grrr! I’ll never get the hang of juggling! After practicing for more than a week, I still can’t keep two balls in the air.
Hana can juggle three balls. In fact, I think she’s getting obsessed. Yesterday she asked permission to borrow three squishy balls so she could practice in the dorm. When I got up to pee last night, she was juggling on her bed. Who knew juggling could be an antidote for homesickness?
Now Hana is juggling those balls so quickly, I can’t keep track of which is which.
“You’re getting really good,” I tell her.
Hana is better at juggling than at accepting compliments. “I think it’s because I have aptitude for mathematics.”
“I don’t know what math has to do with it.”
Genevieve, who is sitting on another folding chair, insists on juggling too. Suzanne is not so sure that is a good idea, but as we all know by now, Genevieve can be very stubborn. “Besides,” she tells Suzanne, “no one said I had to rest my upper body.”
Suzanne gives in, maybe because she is worn out from having gone back and forth to the hospital and having attended Louise’s funeral.
When Genevieve drops one of her squishy balls and it rolls along the floor, I take off after it. It’s only when Genevieve misses four or five catches in a row that I realize she’s doing it on purpose. She bursts into laughter when I toss the squishy ball in her face. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out,” she says.
I’m back on the floor, throwing my two balls up into the air, still trying to get the timing right, when I feel Suzanne standing next to me. She doesn’t say anything, just watches as I struggle to keep the balls moving. “You need to concentrate—and relax,” she says.
“I am concentrating!” I manage to say it without taking my eyes off the ball.
“But you’re not relaxed, are you?”
Suzanne walks off before I can answer. I miss my catch, and the ball brushes against the side of my face before landing on the mat. Grrr!
I know Suzanne is right. But concentrating and being relaxed at the same time is harder than it sounds.
A few minutes later, I get up to use the water fountain—not only because I’m thirsty, but also because I need a break from my own bad juggling. Suzanne is getting water too. “I was just wondering,” I say to her. “Isn’t concentrating the opposite of being relaxed?”
Suzanne pats my shoulder. “Not in circus it isn’t.”
It doesn’t help my juggling to think how learning to juggle even three balls would help my chances of being accepted into MCC. Versatility is one of the qualities the selection committee looks for in performers. When I start thinking about that, I mess up even worse. So much for feeling relaxed.
For the next couple of minutes, I just lie on my mat and breathe deeply—in and out, in and out, over and over again. I relax my shoulders and arms, which are tense from juggling—or in my case, trying to juggle. With eyes closed, I reach for my two squishy balls. Then I open my eyes and toss one ball up into the air. I’m relaxed and concentrating, really I am.
When the ball is just starting to arc, I toss up the second ball. And then something miraculous and magical happens: I’m juggling. I’m so excited I nearly shout out loud that I’ve done it, that I’m doing it, but I don’t because I’m afraid to break the spell.
* * *
Mom calls that evening. “You sound good,” she says. I don’t know how Mom can read my moods even over the phone.
“I’m learning to juggle. I’ve been trying to do it for over a week, but today I finally started to get the hang of it.”
Mom laughs. “That’s wonderful! I can’t wait to see you, Mandy.”
The plan is for her to fly to Montreal on Friday in time to catch our final performance. My dad isn’t coming.
“Dad told me about the morgue,” I say.
Mom knows right away what I mean. “I was a little surprised he did that. In all the years we’ve been married, he’s hardly ever mentioned his father and what happened.”
I’m thinking about Grandpa. Would my life have been different if I’d known him? It’s hard for me to imagine that my serious, conservative engineer father could be the son of a stuntman. “Why do you think he doesn’t talk about his dad?”
I can almost hear Mom thinking on the other end of the phone. “I think it’s partly because he was so traumatized by his death.”
“I know he was pretty shook up about the news of that aerialist’s death. He told me it brought back a lot of memories. I guess he’s afraid I’ll get hurt—or die—in some accident too.” I was going to tell Mom about Genevieve’s broken ankle, but I decide this isn’t a good time.
“You’re right that he worries about you getting hurt, Mandy. But there’s more to it. I think he hasn’t wanted to burden you.”
“Burden me?” Now I’m confused. “Why would it burden me? I wasn’t even born when it happened.”
“You know, Mandy, when you were little, you were like a little monkey.” Mom’s voice softens, and I know it’s because she’s remembering. Sometimes I think she misses having a little girl around.
“I don’t think you were ever so happy as when you were climbing a tree. Your father worried, I know he did, but at the same time, he didn’t want to take that joy away from you. Looking back now, I see it was very generous of him.”
There’s that word again. Generous. First Genevieve, and now my father. What I can’t figure out is why the two people who’ve been most generous with me lately are the last two people I ever expected it from.